


Of Itches, Sandwiches, and Uninvited Guests

by Medie



Category: The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: Gen, Telepathic Link, trope bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-01-27 20:56:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1722260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medie/pseuds/Medie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Marcone and I were telepathically linked. Bonded. Fused. Vulcan mind-melded to within an inch of our lives. Whatever. I could hear his thoughts and he could hear mine.</p><p>I just want one thing clear. One thing. Just one. </p><p>THIS WAS NOT MY FAULT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Itches, Sandwiches, and Uninvited Guests

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the telepathy/mindmeld square of my Trope Bingo fic. Some Dresden/Marcone subtext might've snuck in there!

Ever have an itch you can't scratch? The one between your shoulders that you can't quite reach? Or maybe you're in public with a few hundred of your nearest and dearest staring at you while all you can think about is that itch on your ass?

Yeah, well, this was worse than that. No, really. It was worse than that because it wasn't even _my_ itch. It was right behind my left ear and I'd almost scratched the skin raw before I realized the problem. 

It wasn't my itch. It was more a sympathy itch and all the scratching in the world wasn't going to do a damn thing.

That left me one option. Grabbing my duster and my gear, I gave Mister a scratch behind the ears, Mouse the nod toward the car, and I headed across town. All the way that damned scratch was happily doing its best to drive me stark-raving mad.

I know, I know, short trip, but seriously, you try it and see how you like it. It'd been bugging me for hours. _Hours_. I'd always suspected the man's heart was made of stone, I hadn't realized the rest of him was too.

Grumpy, I stomped my way past the receptionist, waving her off with vague reassurances that nothing was about to explode (though I'm pretty sure it mostly came out as a grunt that would have made Cujo jealous) and burst into John Marcone's office. 

He looked up, unsurprised of course, and said nothing as I leaned over to scratch that damn itch.

Relief exploded through me and I dropped down into the nearest chair with a sigh. Better. 

"And here I was hoping your presence meant you'd made some sort of progress," Marcone said. 

I looked at him then at the powered down laptop abandoned at his elbow, took note of the suspiciously quiet room and how everything with a cord had been unplugged. Obviously, for those of you playing along at home right now, he knew I was coming. "Pretty sure, all things considered, you knew better." 

He shrugged. "There was always the chance it was beginning to fade and I wasn't hearing you properly." 

I snorted. "Didn't realize you were that big on optimism." 

"I'm not," Marcone said. "However, sharing this connection with you―perhaps its begun to rub off on me."

"One, there is zero chance in hell I rub _anything_ off on you," I said, ignoring the snort in the back of my head that was probably his attempt at hiding laughter. "Two," I said, manfully powering through it, "I'm an idealist, not an optimist and, three? Seriously, there is no chance in hell I rub _anything_ off on you." Sure, I was splitting hairs, but since we were both experts at that one, I didn't think he'd argue. Which, of course, meant he'd do it just to be a pain in my ass.

He didn't, but probably because he'd heard me think that. 

God, I was going to get a headache thinking in circles like that.

"Small wonder," Marcone said, "If that's the sort of reasoning you regularly employ." 

I flipped him off. He actually chuckled as he reached for another file. Bastard was enjoying this. I added that to my list of reasons to hate him until the day I died.

That got me another chuckle. "A list that is far shorter than I'd expected it to be," he said, getting up. "Coffee?"

I scowled and slumped in my chair. So, yeah, this was where I revealed to all you good folk that, somehow, John Marcone and I were telepathically linked. Bonded. Fused. Vulcan mind-melded to within an inch of our lives. Whatever. I could hear his thoughts and he could hear mine.

I just want one thing clear. One thing. Just one. 

THIS WAS NOT MY FAULT.

"You need not shout, Mr. Dresden. As you are well aware, I can hear you perfectly without it." 

Folding my arms, I kicked at the carpet and glared at him. "Well, it isn't."

"Hmm, so we've established," Marcone said. He shared a quiet word with his secretary and then closed the door, rubbing his temple as he did. "Though it would be far better if, in the course of that, we'd uncovered just who the actual perpetrator is." 

I scowled at him. "I'm working on it." The bastard could at least pretend this was bothering him. 

His eyebrows rose and I muttered an oath I'd picked up from Bob. "I wasn't aware I needed to pretend? I thought I was making it quite clear as to my aggravation on the matter." 

"That's what this is?" I asked, raising my eyebrows. "So what happens when you get righteously pissed off? You roll up your sleeves and write a strongly worded letter to the editor?" Actually, I knew it probably involved something in the firearms family and, stars, I hoped he didn't have a specific memory in mind for that. 

Something Italian flitted through his thoughts and I didn't need a translation. I don't care what you're speaking, swearing sounds the same in any language. I had a feeling whatever Johnny boy had just said, it probably outclassed me by a mile or fifty.

"Much better," I said, mostly satisfied and, yeah, nobody was going to be examining that any time soon. 

"So glad you approve," he sighed. 

I waved him off and sunk further into the chair, stretching my legs out in front of me. The whole thing really wasn't my fault. If I was going to mind-meld with somebody, it sure as hell wouldn't be―well, anyone I know, actually. 

Disturbing thought to be having right now, but most of the people I know? Pretty damn scary. Yes, that includes the tiny, blonde cop.

"Extremely unwise, isn't it?" Marcone asked, light as air. "Thinking of her in such fashion?"

"My kneecaps are safe," I said. Mostly because Murphy can't actually reach them. 

"Only so long as I stay silent," he pointed out and, yeah, I had to give him that one. Murphy might not believe a word out of his mouth on any day ending in y, but she'd also make an exception the minute my name crossed his lips. 

Slumped in my chair I let my head fall back so I could look at him by the door. "Shaking me down _now_? That seems like a good idea to you?"

"I make my opportunities where I can," he said, almost smiling.

"Dick," I said and sat up. "So, Gard hasn't turned up anything?"

"No."

Real chatty guy, Marcone. Talk your ear off if you let him.

"Not as a matter of course," he said, "but you, it seems Harry, just might."

"One does try." I drummed my fingers against the chair, mulling over what I did have. It wasn't much. It was a spell. Bob had attested to the weird invisible chain my head had sprouted. One that vanished into the ceiling. I had a feeling John had a chain of his own that, with me in the room, led straight to me. 

If it was true then that was some pretty impressive technical work. Impressive and a little terrifying. I didn't want to know the kind of guy that could whip up a spell like this, much less one that would go completely undetected by both parties. I hadn't noticed a thing was wrong until I'd fallen asleep to an extremely fucked up sex dream where Susan had morphed into John Marcone and, no, I didn't want to examine the possible psychological ramifications of that. 

I just wanted to be cranky and forget the whole thing wasn't happening. 

My only saving grace was the fact the link wasn't a all day-all night sort of thing. It kind of frizzed in and out like a radio. Sometimes I could hear him as clearly as when he spoke and others it was like nothing was wrong at all.

But I could hear him and he could hear me. Gentleman Johnny had a direct line into my brain. Cue the ominous music.

"Really, Harry," John chided. Who _chided_ anymore? Hell's bells, the man was ridiculous. "You're making too much out of this. It isn't as if I can go wandering through your thoughts picking out what interests me."

"Yeah, well, forgive me if I don't take your word for it," I said, pacing around the room. I wouldn't be surprised at all if he'd already figured out how to control this and, well, taken a quick looksee.

Which in no way made me want to panic at all. Totally not. I wasn't thinking about--ah hell, that was the problem.

You ever try to not think about something? It's pretty much impossible. And that was the thing.

There was a lot in my head I didn't want Marcone getting a look at. Not the least of which was, well, everything. 

I held my breath and tried to empty out my thoughts. It wasn't as if I didn't have practice with it (shut up, Marcone) but this wasn't a ritual thing. This was hiding—"Fuck," I muttered. "I need to figure this out and fast." 

Turning around, I leaned my head against the wall and closed my eyes. "Okay, so we've already established that I've had the dullest month a wizard possibly could, that means this is your doing somehow." 

Dull didn't even begin to describe it. It had been a long time since I'd had a dry spell this bad. It was starting to make me nervous. This kind of silence usually meant a lead up to something big and scary that liked to try and eat cities if not entire planets.

"One hopes this is not either of the above."

"Stay out of my head, Marcone."

"I believe that is the crux of the matter, Harry, I _can't_."

"Funny," I said, opening my eyes and turning to look at him. "I seem to be managing pretty damn well."

He smiled, indulgent. "Are you? Or are you just filling your own head with so much nonsense that you can't hear what I'm thinking?" 

"Does it matter as long as it works?" I rubbed the back of my neck. For the time being, it seemed to be working just fine. 

I would have felt John's skepticism without the link between us. "But how long can you keep it going?" he asked, sounding genuinely concerned. And that was the worst part. He _was_. Someone could pretend for a little while, put up a front in their thoughts just in case someone else could hear, but time always runs out.

I hadn't had much experience reading minds, but I was a quick study. Marcone made a pretty good test case, actually. The guy was all about order and control, everything in its place and that, and I'd expected his brain to be pretty much exactly like that.

It wasn't. 

There were thoughts going every which way. Some of them were fully-formed, words, deeds, and actions all there, grammatically perfect to boot, and others were just chaos. A stray thought about lunch, the night before, Gard's work on figuring out what the hell had happened to us and how it had been done with me on one side of town and him on the other―it was chaos. Hell, I was pretty sure he'd even snuck a look at my―my face flushed. 

No, I blushed. I totally blushed, but to be fair, how many times in my life had I actually heard someone comment on my ass, much less someone like _Marcone_ being the one doing the commenting. Even if the comment had been made in the privacy of his own mind and totally not meant for me to hear.

I ducked my head, not quite meeting his eyes, as he circled around to take seat at his desk again. I didn't know if he knew I'd heard that or not and I was determined not to let on I had.

Of course, this was Marcone and, odds were, he knew I knew, but was giving us both the out of pretending he didn't.

Peach of a guy that way. 

The secretary knocked at the door a second later, then at Marcone's word, ducked in to deliver the coffees. She was carrying a tray and there was—stars— _food_ on it. I perked up in a second, forgetting Marcone's appreciation of my, uh, assets (though, seriously, let's be honest, my assets are a little underfed and, uh, bony) in the face of a sandwich so perfect I wanted to bronze it.

Or me after I ate the thing. 

He watched me gulp down the first half of the sandwich (it was really good, okay?) with either amusement, horror, or a mixture of both, and then shook his head. "When precisely do you find time to eat?"

I smiled, licking my fingers just to annoy him. "When I remember and if I have time." 

Didn't need to know he was reading my mind to realize his opinion on that. Especially since I did know he was reading my mind and he did know just how often I remembered.

"It seems, Mr. Dresden, that it's a miracle you haven't collapsed of hunger before now. The energies you expend in a battle―"

"Cheap calories work the fastest," I said. "More sugar the better. You think I'm this perky and lovable naturally?" His answer was a mental image that almost made me choke. "Not funny," I said around a mouthful of sandwich. 

"I'd beg to differ—" Marcone replied.

I rolled my eyes, muttering, "—but you don't beg, I know." 

"Effectively." He kept watching me for a moment, then shook his head. "I'll have them make another." 

Frankly, I think the man was just worried I'd eat the plate.

"The thought had crossed my mind," he said, expression not even wavering in the least when I snickered into my sandwich. 

Yeah, I'm twelve years old, wanna make something of it?

Marcone sighed. "Not especially." 

I polished off my sandwich. 

You know, when you got right down to it, I could have a lot of fun with this. 

Well, for the thirty seconds it took for him to shoot me.

"Considerably less than that, Mr. Dresden," Marcone said, looking at me, "but should you feel like testing me—"

I glared. "Think I'm gonna take that sandwich to go."

"Wise man." 

Which, when you think about it, is probably the only time he'd ever call me that.

"Most certainly."

Hell's fucking bells, but I needed to fix this.

Fast.


End file.
